"Will that un-break my lad's jaw? Make him fit to carry a pike against the bloody Black Rock sods? Fuck off with that nonsense!" Brickenden's voice has risen a pitch or ten, and anyone who wasn't originally going to vacate the taproom has evidently changed their minds about it, and are beginning to creep out the front door lest they get caught up in a fight if fists start flying.

Brickenden doesn't notice them (or doesn't care), but he does notice Fíadh's approach; she's rather hard to miss, furious and fired up as she is, and he gestures a massive hand at her with a bark of insincere laughter. "You ought to hang up your coat and hand the mantel over to this one, she's got fury enough in her to keep an entire company of rowdy lads in line. But you--" His lip curls at Lance again, disgusted, as he looks him over. "I'd not trust you to discipline my wee granddaughter, let alone a guardsman going off like a loose cannon." Pot, kettle, black, etc. But he is a commander, and carries himself like a man well accustomed to wielding authority... and reinforcing it with violence, when necessary.

"Now, I'm asking you nicely, Captain," he growls, "and I'm running out of patience: that bloody guardsman will pay with his hide for what he took from the duke's army--or I'll take it myself out of your winter stores, with the duke's blessing, and leave your entire village to scrounge for roughage until the spring thaw."